


Jacob Have I Loved

by samwysesr



Series: The Life and Times of Evie Frye [1]
Category: ACS - Fandom, Assassin's Creed, Assassin's Creed Syndicate - Fandom
Genre: Anti-Henvie, Bigoted hate will be deleted, F/M, Fryecest - Freeform, Twincest, You've been warned
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-20
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2019-03-07 07:55:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13430325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samwysesr/pseuds/samwysesr
Summary: It takes a long time for some realizations to hit—when they do, Evie Frye must decide if she will listen to the secret locked deep inside her heart... or the logic in her head.Set immediately after Henry's ridiculous proposalNOT 'Henvie' friendly





	1. One

 

**OUT OF THE MYRIAD**  of benefits that served as a reward when one took the time to apply logic and careful calculation to any given situation, the most important was a rather simple thing—one’s decisions were seldom, if ever, wrong. Weighing the odds and predicting all possible outcomes enabled a body to determine any margin of error, giving ample time to have a backup plan in place, thus, leaving little room for mistakes when push came to shove. The importance… no… the  _necessity_  of this was so deeply ingrained in her psyche that it was ne’er impossible to deviate from the teaching; it was a lesson her brother had never managed to learn—which was why she always found herself wasting unnecessary time cleaning up the messes he left in his wake. 

_What would father do?_

That was her constant credo; though Ethan Frye had striven to instill the importance of individual decision and thought in the twins, she still unconsciously weighed every decision she made on a scale, attempting to balance and model her actions in accordance to what her father might do.

The moment when Henry Green stood before her, stammering out his declaration of love was no different; even at such a  _personal_  moment, her thought process did not veer from its usual course.

_What would father have me do?_

The question raced through her mind; automatically she tallied out the pros and the cons, coming up with the answer almost instantly. 

_Most definitely, he would approve of such a match—he would whole-heartedly encourage me to accept._

She stood, crossing the room—her steps made confident and sure by her silent, deductive reasoning. However, as she reached for Henry’s hand, the most unexpected thing happened—her brain started whirring  _again_.

It wasn’t quite finished yet—in assuming that the pros must far outweighed any cons, she’d moved a split second too soon.

Indeed, her father would approve of the man in front of her— Henry Green was the embodiment of all the wonderful traits she’d so admired in Ethan Frye. Nevertheless, in that moment, gazing up at him—seeing the look of delight that appeared on his face as he interpreted her actions as acceptance, a sudden realization hit home.

Her own inexperience with interpersonal relationships had somehow managed to drastically confuse  _everything_. The plain and simple truth was… she’d subconsciously transferred the reverent adoration she’d felt towards her father to the man who so personified him, mistaking it for something else  _entirely_.

Yes, she loved Henry Green… but she wasn’t  _in love_ with him. She cherished his friendship and enjoyed his companionship… but nothing more. The touch of his hand did not speed her pulse, and in truth, the single kiss they’d shared had been nothing more than the press of lips—it  _certainly_ hadn’t been accompanied by any magical, all-encompassing feelings of passion that made her heart sing or her body ache with longing.

_That was the entire crux of the situation._

The happiness she felt vanished in an instant, replaced by a wave of nausea as her thoughts kicked in  _yet again_ ; for the first time in her life, she questioned the catechism she lived by, wondering how many mistakes might have been omitted if she’d allowed her own judgment to shine through.

_What would father do?_

How many  _unknown_ problems had arisen from that question? How many arguments with Jacob might have been avoided had she not clung with such fierce determination to the notion that their father’s methods and train of thought were a touchstone they should honor? She’d stubbornly hung on to the belief that measuring what was right or wrong by what father might do for so long that it was second nature—automatically ignoring her own thoughts and feelings… shoving them aside in favor of doing what she believed she  _had_   to do.

_And look where it had gotten her._

Tears filled her eyes as she realized that her brother had been right all along—albeit in a skewered sort of way.

Her moment of cognizance was instantaneous—the sheer  _enormity_  of her folly hitting her like an unexpected blow, striking at the most inconvenient possible moment.

Henry began rambling again, tugging her out of her self-incrimination—she bit back a sigh of irritation; though her thoughts had been drifting, the gist of his one sided conversation was quite clear—he’d interpreted her teary silence for acquiescence.

“—that is unless you find the thought of going before a magistrate distasteful. Would you prefer a church wedding, dearest?”

_Dear God._

_No I wouldn’t!_

_I would prefer no wedding at all, thank you very much!_

Her mind screamed out in protest, though she didn’t voice the harsh words; she couldn’t—he was a decent kind man, not deserving such blunt refusal. Instead, she tried for the demure, feminine uncertainty that was so expected of the fairer sex—though for her, it was  _quite_  a stretch. 

“While I am very humbled by your kind proposal,” she said softly, “as you pointed out, we have only been acquainted a very short time. You are aware how much I detest rushing into things—I think perhaps we should revisit this topic at a later time.”

Her statement was met with silence; he blinked, looking rather confused. “Do you mean… planning the wedding?”

“I mean the entire line of subject matter—I cannot possible agree to marry a man that I barely know,” she responded, trying to hide her impatience. “It’s hardly proper—”

“You’re right, of course. I’m sorry. I suppose I really should have approached your brother first, since your father is gone,” he mumbled.

A wave of indignant anger roared through her—she pulled her hand free, increasing the space between them, unable to keep up the polite charade. The thought of him speaking to Jacob of such things disturbed her greatly—though she wasn’t quite sure  _why_. “I am not a  _possession_ to be bartered away, Mr. Green. I make my own decisions—my brother has no say in this matter at all.”

“I meant no offense,” the softness of his voice was edged with something she couldn’t quite place; it had a tight, sharp edge that caught her by surprise, making her wary. “I simply was agreeing that I did not follow the acceptable protocol for—“

She’d heard enough. 

“Can we continue this at another time please?” Raising her hand to her head in a dramatic gesture that was much more in character for her twin, she let out a completely feigned, pain-filled sigh. “I have a beastly headache brewing—I need to rest.”

Immediately, his brow wrinkled with concern. “Of course—can I get you anything?”

“Nothing, thank you—you will excuse me?” She asked, moving pointedly towards the door. 

He followed, of course—he was far too well-mannered to do otherwise; ignoring his murmured wishes regarding her speedy recovery, she shut the door firmly in his face, leaning back against it—counting to one hundred before letting out a hushed sound that could only be described as the strangest mixture of a mirthless chuckle and a sob.

“Fine kettle of fish you’ve landed yourself in this time, Evie girl,” she muttered, slowly sliding down the door. Closing her eyes, she searched her mind, trying to process the entirety of what had just happened; she needed to examine the issue—her intention was completely focused on dissecting things thoroughly, weighing her options the way she would normally do.

However, for the first time in her life, the logical answers she sought refused to come. They hovered—maddeningly—just out of reach, drowned out by the sheer strength of her emotions.

With her normal method of problem solving as out of reach as those elusive thoughts, she felt lost… completely adrift—though a part of her instinctively understood why her analytical mind had shut down; at a moment like this, the last thing she needed was cold hard facts—it was warm comfort she truly desired…but she was all alone.

_Deep down, buried deep beneath the layers of confusion she felt… only one thing was clear. What she wanted more than anything at that moment was Jacob—she yearned for her twin to come home._

Drawing her knees up to her chest the way she’d often done as a small child, Evie Frye stopped struggling with her emotions, giving in to the turbulent chaos churned inside.

Bowing her head to her knees, she began to cry.


	2. Chapter 2

It was one of those rare, lucky nights when fortune appeared to be smiling down upon him; the cards absolutely loved him, presenting him with the opportunity to over trump his competitors time and time again. Eyeing the cards he’d been dealt, he realized that he was well on his way to winning his eight consecutive hand of lanterloo in a row—it was something of a personal record, pleasing him almost as much as the large profit he’d raked up in the process.

Had he been back in Crawley, undoubtedly such a streak would’ve earned looks of accusation and disbelief from round the table—perhaps even a few grumbles of thinly veiled speculation regarding his honesty. But here? No one would dare risk offending him with the slightest hint that he’d stoop to cheating—whether it be in a makeshift ring or at the gaming table, it was a well-known fact that Jacob Frye _always_ competed fairly.

Eyeing his cards again, he contemplated upping his ante; it was a risk, of course, but it would force the others to do the same sweetening the pot—if his luck held, it would certainly be worth the gamble. Doubling the amount in the purse he’d pass off to young Clara would mean that she’d be able to feed her large brood of urchins for at least a few weeks, taking some of the weight from the girl’s shoulders—and hopefully ease away some of the worry that lingered in Evie’s eyes when they spoke about the children. The thought was enough to prod him from his waffling; his hand slid towards the pile of coins beside his drink—he’d go all in, trusting chance to see him through, ignoring the risk.

That was when it hit him—a twisty, aching sort of feeling, right in the center of his gut, so strong it made his hand tremble; automatically it veered off course, moving past the pile of coins to grab his pint instead. He recognized the sensation far too well; it was as familiar as his face when he looked in the glass, though it was one he hadn’t felt for quite some time—not since before they’d set foot in London. Not since the day father had died, in fact, when Evie’s grief had been so intense he’d been sure it would drown them both.

_There’s something wrong with Evie._

Immediately, the instinctive urge to run to her side flared to life—so strong that it was almost impossible to ignore; his jaw tensed as he fought to resist the impulse—determined to avoid another round of harsh words between them. Evie didn’t _want_ his help—she’d made that abundantly clear, time and time again since they’d arrived in the city. Were he to show up, she’d lash out, her anger making her oblivious to the fact he’d acted out of concern—he’d respond in kind, his own foolish pride preventing him from doing anything less, and they’d wind up at each other’s throats _again_.

Letting out a frustrated growl, he dropped his cards face down on the table, chugging the remains of his drink; the feeling in the pit of his stomach had sobered him up far faster than anything else could—he needed something infinitely stronger to dull the sensation. Staring into the empty glass, he suddenly remembered that his plans for the night _had not_ included cards at all, but rather consuming as much alcohol as he could muster in hopes it would make him _forget_ the accursed _thing_ that plagued him.

  _Unfortunately, I suspect there isn’t enough alcohol in all of London to achieve that._

“I’m out—got other business to attend to,” he said abruptly, shoving back his chair.

“Oi! You can’t just walk out in the middle of a bloody hand!” The burly man to his right growled, scowling ferociously.

Narrowing his eyes, he affixed the man with a dark, piercing gaze, tapping his middle finger on the cards before him. “Let me put it this way, mate—I can either stick around and over trump the lot of you again, taking the whole pot... or you can be a good lad and divvy out a fair share here and now. Choice is yours.”

The players round the table checked their cards, suspiciously eyeing him—each one calculating the odds of a bluff; the speculative silence was finally broken by the well-dressed gentleman seated his opposite—a banker with the misfortunate habit of losing his wages at the gaming tables. “For God’s sake cash him out—maybe then the rest of us will have a bit of luck.”

His lips twitched up in a smirk, making the faint scar beside his mouth dance. “Don’t listen to him lads—luck has nothing to do with it—” he announced, ignoring the fact that the words completely contradicted his earlier musing; sweeping the winnings into his purse along with his unused pile of coins, he tipped the brim of his hat, flashing a charismatic smile. “It’s all about _skill_.”

Standing, he whistled loudly for the barmaid—she responded to the summons in a flash, appearing by his side. “Yes sir, Mister Frye?”

“Next round is on me love—” he tossed a few coins on her tray, then added a few more “—and that’s for you. Buy your boy something nice, aye?”

The woman—a widow, he recalled, with a small son who seemed to grow so fast she couldn’t keep him in shoes, if her complaints were to be believed—flushed at the sight of his generosity. “Thank you sir—”

He waved off her thanks, already turning to head to the bar—the nagging sensation in his gut grew stronger with each minute that passed; if he didn’t drown it out soon, there’d be no hope of overcoming it. He’d wind up caving in to his instincts, and that was something that rarely ended well.

_A row with Evie is the absolute last bloody thing I need tonight._

Automatically, the crowd of Rooks around the table parted, making room for him as he moved; he returned the called out greetings with a nod—his full lips quirking up in amusement as eyes dropped respectfully when they happened to meet his. Glancing around the assembled bodies, he picked out the new faces that had joined them—the latest batch of recruits skirted the edges of the room, sticking to the fringes. Though they’d come to join the celebrating, they still looked ill at ease and wary—having lost the fight, they had opted to join the winning side, but as of yet, weren’t sure of their place. Experience told him that would fade by the end of the night—the drinks would chase back any fear that a misstep or unintended slight might cost them a sound beating. Copious lubrication would fade the uncertainty in their eyes, and they’d join the brave few among their fellows who’d already ventured into the crowd, claiming seats among the ranks in hopes of blending in. His Rooks would take them under wing, reassuring them of his kind, fair leadership—they’d slowly learn the rules and ways of his gang, becoming valued members. It would play out like clockwork, the same way it had so many times be—

“Mister Frye seems a good sort... nothing at all like that sister of his. She’s a cold one ain’t she? More frigid than the Thames at mid-winter, iffin you ask me.”

He paused, his eyes searching out the owner of the loud, brash voice— _there_. His gaze locked on the recruit—he shifted, altering his course.

_Looks like it’s already time for their first lesson._

“Mind you, given five minutes alone with her, I’d melt her icy arse fast enough!” The recruit leered at the men seated around the table, giving an exaggerated wink. “Have her squealin like a pig I would, beggin for more of the same—”

Shoving bodies out of the way, his arm shot out, fingers knotting in greasy hair—slamming the recruit’s face down against the wooden table hard enough to flatten his nose, a spray of bright red blood showering the Rooks that were seated around the impudent little bastard.

“Seems to me you need a lesson in minding your vulgar tongue, _boy_.” It came out low and guttural, full of barely constrained fury—a growl of warning to all within earshot. “Talk about my sister like that again and I’ll cut out your bloody tongue—understand?”

The loud, boisterous chatter in the pub ceased abruptly; necks craned all over the room as their owners tried to see over and around the mass of bodies—all eager to watch the notorious Jacob Frye meting out discipline.

The recruit wheezed, spitting out a mouthful of blood and a few broken teeth, choking on his words. “I’m sorry Mister Frye! I was just—“

“Make the same mistake and you won’t _live_  to regret it.” Releasing the stringy hair as roughly as he’d grabbed it, he kicked the chair over, sending it and its occupant to the dirty, sticky floor. “Get that filth out of my sight before I lose my temper.”

“On it boss!” Two Rooks moved forward instantly, yanking up the man and strong-arming him out the door.

Despite the fact he’d vented his anger, it wasn’t enough; the electric tension coiling his muscles did not fade—the encounter had ended far too quickly for his rage to be fully spent. His eyes moved slowly around the room, his gaze dark and dangerous as he surveyed the crowd around him. “Anyone else have something to say about Evie?”

Eyes dropped. Feet shuffled. No one dared look at him directly, or even to make the slightest sound. Most had seen him in the ring—seen the _beast_ in full glory; they wouldn’t hazard the risk of attracting his attention lest they feel the heat of his anger in a most painful way.

“That’s what I thought. Now... I believe this is supposed to be a celebration—drink up!”

It was the catalyst they’d been waiting for—the nervous, strained silenced dissipated in an instant, Rooks raising their glasses, letting out all the raucous noise they’d been holding in. The piano in the corner started plinking out again, picking up the tune that had been left hanging—it’s out of tune melody joined by the even more off key sound of the player’s singing.

His comment had been convincing enough to reassure the gang, lulling them back into their prior revelries state—but inside he was still seething, the anger seeking release, refusing to be sated. Since coming to London, it was ever present, lingering deep down inside him, testing his control—and the blasted pangs of tightness in his stomach weren’t helping in the slightest. If anything, the blowback from his sister drew his instincts closer to the surface, making it even harder to rein in his impulses.

Even as he thought it, the knot in the pit of his stomach constricted—unbidden, the recruits filthy comments about Evie echoed through his mind, awakening an entirely _new_   worry. What if some bastard was trying to—

_No. She is more than capable of defending herself—she doesn’t need me._

The thought should have chased back the unease, sending it fleeing—but it didn’t; instead it made the image of her fighting off such an attack play out inside his head. Some nameless, faceless man putting his hands on her, intent on taking—

A growl rumbled through his chest—the sound born of the two emotions he felt the strongest. Protectiveness measured equally with something far more disturbing—possession.

_Christ I need a bottle... fast._

Lurching toward the bar, he wasn’t surprised that the mass of bodies lining the long wooden surface thinned upon his approach, leaving ample room—it was expected, just one of the many perks that came with successful leadership and making his dominance known.

“Get me a whiskey,” he called out, leaning against the polished wooden surface, “and leave the bottle—I’ve got a powerful thirst tonight.”

The promise of the whiskey was enough to ease back the turmoil he felt— momentarily, at least; bracing himself on an elbow he shifted, trying to distract himself as he waited for his drink. Automatically, his eyes flicked around the overcrowded room—making note those that were missing. They’d lost half dozen of their own in the fight—men and women with families; though he masked away his sorrow, he felt each loss intensely. They’d been _his_   people, and though they were responsible for themselves and their own actions, he felt as though he’d failed them when they’d needed him the most. He should have trained them right from the start—taught them better techniques... better ways to protect themselves. He sighed, rubbing his hand across his brow. He couldn’t protect everyone—he knew that—but still, that didn’t change the fact he _wanted_ to. Now all he could give them were silent apologies that would fall on deaf, dead ears; he’d honor their sacrifice as best he could, making sure those they’d left behind were properly cared for, however, that wouldn’t negate the guilt he felt.

“Here ya go, Mr. Frye, best we got—on the house.”

Glancing over his shoulder at the man working the bar, he arched a brow. “A thanks for padding your coffers with the patronage of my Rooks, perhaps?”

“Nah—old woman that was getting mugged over on Hanbury? She’s me mum. Wallop me good if I didn’t show proper thanks to ‘er savior, she would.” The man flashed a gap tooth grin, moving off towards the other end of the room where a patron was drunkenly banging his glass on the bar to summon him. “Hold yer horses—I’m comin!”

Automatically, his upper lip curled in anger—he remembered the poor woman well; her accoster managed to slice her face _twice_ before her screams drew his attention, extending the corners of her mouth all the way across her face.

Straightening up, he made quick work of filling the glass—downing the whiskey in one go. The smooth burn chased back the memories of the woman’s high pitched, pain filled screams. He’d gutted the bastard, but still, it didn’t seem nearly enough considering the agony she’d suffered.

Refilling the glass, he emptied it again—the intensifying ache in his gut spurring him on, infuriating him by not ceasing; his head snapped around, surveying the room once again—his dark gaze catching a pair of eyes nearby. He summoned the man with the slightest jerk of his head.

The Rook hurried over, looking nervous. “Yeah boss?”

“Send one of the lads to check with the men on the train—see if my sisters there,” he growled—hoping it would be enough to quell his accursed instincts.

“Will do—anything else?” The young man’s look of worry vanished, replaced with a puppy like eagerness at being singled out for a task.

“If she’s not there... I want her found—the faster, the better.”


	3. Chapter 3

This wasn’t like her—not like her at _all._

She wasn’t the emotional sort—that was plain and simple truth; her father spent years teaching her to prioritize and compartmentalize—setting aside the insignificant, mercurial feelings that might muddle her mind at inopportune moments. He’d taught her how to move past base emotions, enabling her to approach any problem or issue she faced with a clear head, focusing on what was  _important—_ applying logic and reason to ferret out the answer, followed by planning out the most reliable method to attain the desired results. When a troubling situation arose, she didn’t curse and shout in the manner of her twin, completely losing all semblance of control—no, her way was to discern the cause and subsequent solution to the problem at hand, remaining completely aloof and detached until the correct answer could be found.

Or so she’d long believed.

Now that she’d prodded and poked that methodology, it was far too easy to see the spider silk foundation that made up its very base—it was a structure comprised and built up by nothing more than years of carefully worded approval and pride filled smiles from her father, supported by his unyielding  repetitive reinforcement. Even worse, when carefully examining the fundamental process and basic core of the doctrine that her father had so methodically instilled in her, there was no _proof_ to substantiate his didactics other than _his own_ constant determination and insistence that they guaranteed success.

Her own recent experience confirmed beyond shadow that his systematized, well structured tenets were an abysmal failure when actually applied—the incident at the lab in Croydon and the shattered window at Saint Paul’s could be labeled exhibits one and two. She’d lost the key not due to lack of planning, but rather from lack of listening to her instinct—she should have gutted the Thorne bitch the moment she’d appeared instead of trying to ferret out information and wasting precious time bantering.   

Instinct—that was what mattered when one was actually in the field. No matter how much careful preparation and procedural technique you applied to a plan, the simple truth was that you couldn’t possibly predict every single unknown element that might pop up, throwing everything into absolute chaos at any given minute. Method didn’t mean whit in the field—it couldn’t help you in that single heartbeat when the unforeseen happened and you had to think on your feet, trusting the feeling in the pit of your gut to get you out alive. She’d had that ability once, but lost it somewhere along the way—her father had discouraged impulsive action, writing it off as lack of control.

_How much of what I think is true is not?_

_How much of me is nothing more than Father’s teachings?_

Buried far back in the depths of her mind, lingered the palest, faintest flicker—a memory of someone _else_. A small girl just as prone to outbursts of emotion as her brother—laughing and shouting with abandon, throwing ferocious fits and tantrums. A girl who cried as easily as she’d laughed—long, and often.  _Always_ with her twin by her side—kissing away the tears from her cheeks and causing all of her giggles.

The memory devastated her in more ways than one, increasing the intensity of her sobs—they were so strong that her body shook from the force of them. From the very beginning, her brother had always been there for her when she needed him, yet how had she repaid that unequivocal boundless love and kindness? With ugly, cold words and cruel taunts—focusing on the messes and completely ignoring his accomplishments and all the good he’d done. By acting dismissive about all the people that he’d helped along the way—as if her search for the artifact was more important than saving _children’s_ lives.

_How could I do that?_

_How?_

Other memories began slowly slipping into her head, breaking free from the chains that bound them away; like Pandora’s Box, the seal had been broken—all that she’d lost _refused_ to be locked away again. Year upon year of cuddling and comforting her brother, trying to soothe away the sting of Father’s sharp words with nothing more than her love. Dancing round the kitchen—dear George beating on the bottom of a pan with a spoon as she and Jacob clumsily waltzed around the kitchen with laughter flowing from their lips. The sound of Jacob’s panicked screams when he’d awoke to find her nightdress soaked with blood—neither of them had understood what it meant at first, but nevertheless, when he realized she was aching terribly, he’d gently rubbed her stomach to try and chase away the pains. Even stronger were the memories of more recent years—holding hands whilst strolling in the gardens, completely content with each other’s company, needing no one else to interfere or invade on their time; getting lost in the warm embrace of a shared gaze—falling into each other’s eyes and losing all track of the world around them.

_Why did I allow my amusement to turn to impatience?_

_My gentleness to harsh words?_

She knew the reasoning for  _that_  far too well, but she couldn’t face it—not yet. Her sense of self preservation was far too strong—it was, perhaps, the only remaining instinct she could lay claim to. Her emotions were too raw and grated for her to admit or even acknowledge exactly what it was that had set her feet down the mistaken, misguided path she’d tread of late.  Better to focus on the other problems that existed, avoiding  _that_   truth for as long as she could.

_When did I start to lose all that I was... all of myself... to what I’ve become?_

The answer was obvious— _those_ memories the clearest ones of all; they’d never been walled away or ignored, because they contained the core root of her earliest lessons in training and control. Instantly, she tried to swallow her tears, hiding them away from the voice that echoed through her mind, the words reinforcing years of intense training.

_‘No Evie! You must hide your emotions—wall them up! Don’t let the heat of anger take over—you must counter it with ice!’_

_‘Mask your feelings—don’t let them peek out in any way! No! I can see you tearing up—try it again!’_

_‘Remember, your opponent will look for the slightest sign of weakness—you must always be on your guard, darling!’_

How many times had she heard those instructions? How many times had they been rephrased—different words that still hammered home the same point? Hundreds, no, thousands—for the better part of fourteen years, they’d been a mantra, seasoned by the subtlest change of his expressions. Happy pride when she remembered—disdain and anger when she forgot.  It hadn’t taken her long to learn to read her Father’s mood, or to realize that her mistakes were costly—not to herself, but to her twin. Jacob was blamed for distracting her. Blamed for goofing off and making it hard for her to focus. Jacob wasn’t paying attention—his blasted fidgeting was a diversion. The list was endless, stretching out across years. Even when Jacob was on his best behavior, excelling at his lessons, somehow things were twisted and skewed, the end result being the same— _he_ was blamed for _her_ mistakes.

_And now... now I’m doing the exact same thing to him as Father._

Did she ever once stop to ask for explanation or try to see the truth? She’d blamed him for the loss of the documents, when in truth his insistence they abandon the chest had probably saved their lives. She’d blamed him for the lack of medical assistance after the Lambeth incident, not stopping to consider all the pain and suffering he’d spared the patients. From the very beginning, Jacob made it clear in no uncertain terms that his focus was destroying the Templars by whatever means he could—he’d done just that the moment he’d learned the truth about Pearl Attaway. However, instead of seeing that bigger picture and acknowledging that he was one step closer to his goal, she’d focused on the transportation problems that arose—once again tossing out blame and accusation in the manner of their father, thinking him rash and impulsive, unable to see that the exact opposite was true.

And the Bank. Oh the bloody bank. Never was there better proof than that of how she’d filled their father’s shoes. She’d accepted all that Abberline told her as the unadulterated truth, instantly believing that Jacob was the one to blame—never suspecting for a single moment that the sergeant might be omitting almost as much as he’d told. After having her brother do his dirty work for him time and time again, he’d inculpated Jacob fully, while holding himself blameless for the outcome. Oh yes, the next time she saw Abberline, they were going to have a very heated discussion regarding his creative way of misrepresenting facts.

_It is undeniable. Every lesson Father instilled, every method and practice he shared, they all led to this. Despite his insistence we follow our own path, he molded me into his image, setting my feet on the same course as his._

_But why?_

So many whys, but no answers. Whatever they might be, it was too late to ferret them out—they were lost when Father died, buried alongside him in his grave.

_Don’t you dare rest the blame for this catastrophe solely on Father’s shoulders—it was your bloody brilliant scheming that brought about this whole bloody mess!_

No. She refused to allow that will-o-wisp thought to take root—it would steer her down the path that led straight to the one thing she couldn’t face, unlocking the one door that must remained sealed at all times.

Swiping at her eyes, she took a shaky breath, a ridiculously inane irritation fluttering through her mind, unbidden. It was inconsequential—something that mattered not at all—something so far removed from the situation that she couldn’t understand why it had sprung up at all, even as she bristled at the content. The vexation was directed towards the many novels that she’d read, and their ludicrous insistence that a women always felt better after a good long cry; the truth of the matter was a far different thing, indeed. She felt quite wretched—her head was throbbing and her eyes stung, not to mention her nose was so stuffy that she could barely breathe, even as it dripped. Pressing the heel of her palms against her temples, she closed her eyes, trying to move past the aching pain of the congestion. She had no idea how much time she’d wasted with her tears—the strong surge of emotion had left her all off kilter, leaving the world around her feeling hazy and surreal.

_When was the last time I let go so completely?_

It seemed like years since she’d had a long, hard cry, however, she wasn’t entirely sure that was the case; she’d been heartsick with grief when Father died, but she’d done her best to lock away her emotions, pushing past the sorrow that ate at her bones—determined to be as strong as possible so she could comfort her twin. Only _once_ had her emotions won the battle, catching her off guard in the middle of the night, but even then she’d done her best to quiet the upheaval inside her. Slipping from bed as quietly as she could so as not to wake Jacob, she’d hidden herself downstairs in Father’s study until her tears were spent—staying as quiet as possible so her brother wouldn’t hear. She didn’t think that really counted as letting go... but maybe it did.

_Hard to believe a bloody marriage proposal brought me lower than Father’s death... but then, I suppose it wasn’t really the cause at all—just the catalyst that unleashed utter pandemonium._

No, it wasn’t the proposal—and it was only partially the sudden realization that the beliefs and methods she’d relied on for years were completely _wrong_   that had pushed her over the edge, snapping something deep inside her mind. What had really undone her was facing the cold hard truth that the only path her future could hold would involve someone like Henry Green—it was the sudden sense of complete desolation that came from the shattering of unspoken, secret dreams. _That_   was the monumental, earth shattering thing—the wretched proposal was just a  tiny ripple in the water that untethered a tidal wave.

_Dear God... the proposal. What do I do about that?_

“Start at the beginning, Evie, working your way through to the end. Focus on the smaller problem before moving to the bigger one nipping at its heels,” she mumbled to herself, completely unaware that she was doing it _again_ —falling back on her father’s teachings, reciting the words he’d spoken as if they were sacred law.

Thumping her head back against the door, she frowned, letting her mind drift back over all the moments she’d spent in Henry Green’s company. Surely there must be more to the feelings she’d thought might be blossoming than simple misplaced adoration? His demeanor _did_   often mirror her Father, but there _had_ to be more than just that. Even though her interest in pursuing a friendship—or more—with the man had been spurred by something far removed from genuine admiration and attraction, she couldn’t have deluded herself so completely... could she? Had the urgent desperation she’d felt to expunge her twisted urges been so intense that she’d managed to fool even  herself, despite the sharpness of her mind?

No... there _had_   to be something else. Something was missing from the equation—it was as simple as that.

_Make a list and go from there—see how the scales balance out._

Henry was handsome—that was an undeniable fact. His dark good looks and his well-modulated voice with its musical accent were quite intriguing... but she wasn’t the sort of girl to go all aflutter over a handsome face—she was accustomed to being around good looking men since her brother was far handsomer than most and he’d been at her side since birth.

_Logical solutions are comprised of known truths—so with that in mind, I must admit... at times Henry’s soft spoken tone is quite irritating—and the accent tends to grate at my nerves within minutes._

He was _decent_ with an honorable moral code—

_No, can’t count those traits either—they fall smack dab in the middle of the list of qualities I always admired in Father._

He was extremely intelligent—that was something in his favor. She was a cerebral creature herself, after all, perhaps that was the answer in and of itself—the way to her heart involved stimulating her mind.

_Bloody hell. Mark that one off too—Father was the smartest man I ever met. Best forget about brave for the same reason, as well as his stoicism._

Worrying her lower lip with her teeth, she searched her mind for something—anything—about Henry that had no ties to her father; it shouldn’t be so hard to find just _one_ thing that differed between the two men—unless of course everything she’d felt was the result of an overflow of daughterly devotion. Hmmm... He did have a _calmness_ about him—one that made her feel at ease. Finally—a point in Henry’s favor.

_“I believe you mean he has a dullness about him, Eves.”_

Although the sarcastic retort was all in her mind, the voice _most definitely_ wasn’t hers. Groaning, she banged her fist against her thigh—the last thing she needed was imaginary commentary from her twin bouncing around in her head.

“He isn’t dull—he’s very much like me, in fact,” she muttered under her breath.

_“If that were actually the case—which it’s not—eventually you would be bored to tears. Deep down you know you need excitement in your life—you always have, just like me.”_

She didn’t answer, refusing to stoop to the ridiculously insane level of arguing with herself—wondering if having her belief system shatter had somehow had a similar effect on her mind. It certainly wasn’t a normal occurrence to have a voice pop up in one’s head—they locked people away for that sort of thing every day.

Unless... _possibly_... it could be blamed on twinship itself. Being a twin did come with certain quirks, after all—like the silly little language they’d had when they were small, or the strange sense of knowing how the other was feeling. She needed her twin and he wasn’t here—she could admit that easily enough. In the wake of such an emotional maelstrom, the longing she felt for the close comfort they’d shared in Crawley was painfully intense, and the memories of Jacob soothing her in childhood only made the lonely ache inside her worse. In imagining what he might say, perhaps she was attempting to assuage that longing in the only way she could.

Perhaps it could even be attributed in part as being a side effect from the sudden onslaught of childhood memories; maybe the girl she’d once been was still inside her, trying to get out, but she’d been silenced for so long by Father’s never-ending demands for restraint and control that she couldn’t find her voice, so she borrowed Jacob’s instead.

She nodded, liking the theory. It was still rather daft, of course, but not nearly stark raving lunacy. It was simple and made sense, better still, it ignored the fact that Jacob’s imaginary voice just happened to be spouting out the very thoughts that kept swimming to the surface of her mind—the very thoughts she was determined to _ignore._

Running over her mental list again, she sighed; there was no denying it—the scale was horribly out of balance and uneven. Henry was far more like her father than she’d realized—but should she really hold that against him? It wasn’t a bad thing in and of itself—all the qualities the two men shared were truly exemplary things, the sort any girl in her right mid should _want_ in a husband...

_But he’s not Jacob._

The unsolicited thought appeared spontaneously, giving her no warning before it blazed through her mind, setting in motion a surge of yearning that raced through every single part of her—so intense that it was impossible to ignore. In a single heartbeat, that final locked door _imploded_ , making her face the most important truth of all—the one that she’d tried so hard to disregard and omit.

She’d been lying to herself right from the start, determined to keep  _that_ secret buried deep within her heart, never to be acknowledged in any way. It was far, far easier to blame father and his methods than to admit and face the fact she was twisted and depraved; far easier to waste time racking her brain for hypotheticals than to own up to the fact that her forbidden, illicit urges would never go away.

No matter how she tried to spin the situation, the pure and simple truth of the matter was that she didn’t  _want_   Henry Green’s proposal, nor any other suitor to come calling for her hand. There was only person who set her pulse racing and lit a fire deep within her body, awakening every part of her in a way no one else could.

_My twin brother._

Without warning, the door behind her rattled—followed by rapid knocking. “Miss Frye? You in there?”

Burying her head in her knees, she bit back a groan—weary to the bone of always having people around every hour of the day and night. What she wouldn’t give for a single weekend away from the bloody train and the city and every single person in it.

_Except Jacob._

_If there’s one thing I’ve learned tonight, it’s that I wouldn’t be able to relax and enjoy myself if he wasn’t there by my side._


	4. Chapter 4

**REACHING FOR ANOTHER TANKARD** , he downed it without pause, the triumphant whoops and cheers of the Rooks around him spurring him on; slamming the empty down on the counter, he reached for another, flashing a grin at the crowd as he raised it to his lips. He’d already imbibed far too much as it was, but he  _still_  hadn’t managed to consume enough to dissipate the irritating pang in the center of his gut—and besides, getting sotted was the entire point of the evening.

_She thinks it’s completely impossible for me to successfully see things through to the end—I’ll bloody well show her how thorough I can be._

His lips curved up in a wry smirk at the thought, imagining his sister’s irritation if he actually pointed out how she inadvertently motivated the night of drunken binging

Almost instantly, the smug smile twisted into a snarl—the drinks were supposed to be wiping Evie from his mind, and yet even now, thoughts of her tormented him beyond all reason, as had become the habit of late.

_No... been far longer than that, m’boy. I may be a scoundrel and a scallywag, lying to the population at large with ease, but I draw the bloody line at lying to myself._

He frowned as the words whispered through his mind, not at all liking the wistful, melancholic feelings that edged the thought. He wasn’t normal—he knew that, and had come to terms with the conclusion years before; there was something askew deep within him, though whether the problem was in his mind or his soul, he didn’t know. Whatever the source, there was no other explanation—the facts were plain and simple, speaking for themselves.

_Father would be absolutely furious to know how I’ve put all his teaching to use._

He snorted, reaching for another drink. His Father and sister may have written him off as a lost cause when it came to methodology and deduction, but the truth of the matter was he had the same skill set as Evie; he’d committed the ceaseless lessons to memory, even when they thought he wasn’t paying attention, secretly honing his skills. He could apply the same logic and consectary reasoning, ferreting out the subtlest nuances and surmising a hypothesis—though it bored him senseless to do so.

Still, he _could_   do it, and he _had—_ no matter how many times he applied Father’s methods to his problem, the conclusion was always the same. His reaction to the thought of intimacy in any form was completely twisted from what it should be—he recognized that, and understood it, but he couldn’t change it one whit. He’d tried to overcome the sick desires that dwelled down deep inside him, but to no avail—the plain and simple truth was that the thought of sharing intimacy with anyone other than Evie was repulsive to him, disgusting him to the point of physical illness. The notion of kissing or caressing anyone else sparked no desire or sexual stirring in his loins, rather, it did the opposite, leaving him feeling cold and detached with a sense of complete abhorrence that did not fade.

He’d accepted that early on, long before he fully understood what it meant—but he hadn’t minded in the slightest since his twin had shared those exact same aversions. It was a topic they’d frequently discussed during their younger years—spawned by Evie’s first bleeding and their sudden exposure to the truth about the birds and the bees; both had agreed that the thought of marriage was distasteful, as was the thought of sharing a bed with anyone else. Likewise, they’d declared the notion of cuddling or kissing or even holding hands with anyone else sounded vile—while they were perfectly comfortable with the bond and closeness they shared together, neither could stomach the thought of ever extending that same sort of close loving relationship with anyone else.  Together they’d made vows to eschew outside complications all together, happy and content that they could revel in their twinship, staying side by side from cradle to grave.

_Was it all a lie to make me feel better? So I wouldn’t feel alone in my strange, freakish state?_

It had to be—she’d kissed bloody Greenie of her own accord, hadn’t she? That in and of itself gave proof to her dishonesty—if she truly shared his mindset then the very thought of such a thing would have filled her with bloody horror.

Automatically, his mind drifted to _that_ moment—the one he’d tried so hard to forget; a wave of nausea rolled through him at the remembrance of Roth stealing that kiss. His recoiling to the forced intimacy was instantaneous—he’d have done the same had it been lad or lass, no matter how young or old; he’d have felt the same repugnance and aversion had it been anyone at all— _anyone but his twin._

A new tankard replaced the spent one—he drained it, hoping the ale inside would wash away the bitter acidic bile that coated his tongue. Closing his eyes, he tried to shove aside all trace of the loathsome memory—focusing on the thought of the way his sister’s lips twitched up at the corners when she was trying not to smile. The blue of her eyes, like the April sky—the silky darkness of her hair spilling down her back as he worked the tangles out with his fingers.

The exercise rendered his earlier attempts to  _forget_   about his twin completely futile, however it did succeed in routing his thoughts to a far more pleasant place indeed; he was on the verge of escaping the melancholic realm of his twisted up mental capacities entirely—but at just that moment, fate decided to intervene.

The feathery brush of a fingertip along the old scar that bisected his brow snapped his eyes open, immediately chasing off his happy thoughts of another time and place;  _no one_   was allowed to touch him _there—_ no one but Evie.

The guilty party took a giant step back, recoiling from the ferocious scowl that overtook his face. He narrowed his eyes, glaring at the interloper, trying to remember her name—T something... Tansy? Tamsin? It didn’t really matter—the only thing about the recruit that stood out in his mind was the fact that something about the girl made Evie bristle like an angry cat whenever she was near.

Mistaking his silence for something else entirely, the girl stepped closer, regaining the ground she’d so recently lost when she jumped back in surprise. “Does it bother you? It shouldn’t—I think it gives you an air of... hmmm...” her head tilted, lashes fluttering coquettishly, “...mystery.”

“I don’t like being touched,” he growled, standing his ground, though that damned maudlin voice inside his head was begging him to retreat—to run to the train where  _she_   was, craving the brush of  the only fingertips that had the right to tease him in such a way. _Needing_   her caress to chase away the taint of the strange touch.

“That’s not what I’ve heard... fellows aren’t the only ones who chatter about their conquests,” she murmured, reaching out to trail her fingertips along his lapel—lower lip sliding out in a pout. “Surely it’s my turn? I’ve been more than patient...”

His stomach rolled at the suggestive statement, threatening to expunge all the whiskey and ale he’d consumed. He opened his mouth to growl out a blunt dismissal—however, a random realization suddenly struck him, catching him off guard and thawing a tiny bit of the icy shield that he’d automatically formed. If he squinted hard enough, she vaguely resembled his sister—of course, it was completely superficial, no doubt thanks to all the alcohol that was fogging his brain. He blinked, tilting his head—wondering if that faint resemblance  _might_ be enough to overcome and conquer his aversions.

Again, she misjudged his silence; fluttering her lashes even more, her nimble fingers slipped up, caressing the scar along his jaw. “Please? You’ll enjoy every minute—I’m _very_ skilled in the bedroom arts...”

His jaw clenched, hands fisting at his sides—her touch felt horribly _wrong_ , practically making his skin crawl. No—the faint resemblance most _definitely_ wasn’t enough. He’d never be _that_ drunk. Batting her hand away, he took a step back, shooting her an icy look. “If you bloody well touch me again you’re going to regret it—”

“Everything alright over here, Mister Frye?” The owner of the low gravelly voice stepped between them; automatically the recruit’s eyes flicked down to the mass of scars that covered the older woman’s throat, earning her the name ‘Patchwork Penny’—they were a permanent badge proclaiming she’d survived a husband far crueler than most would ever see. When he’d tired of her companionship he’d attempted to slit her throat, drunkenly trying to saw through flesh and bone with a blade too dull to succeed.

“We was having a  _private_   word,” the young woman snapped, “ _if_ you don’t mind.”

Penny snorted, squaring off with the girl. “Only person Mister Frye has  _those_  kind of words with is the country lass that won his heart long before you were born, girl.”

“It’s not his  _heart_  I’m interested in,” the girl shot back saucily, copping the sort of attitude that normally would have earned a laugh from him at her brazenness.

_Normally being the operative word—at the moment, it doesn’t seem amusing in the slightest._

“Well it seems to me that it doesn’t rightly matter _what_   you’re interested in, missy—the boss ain’t got the slightest use for a poxy whore when there’s a  _real_  lady waitin’ for him back in Crawley.” Penny flashed a feral smile. “I hear  _all_   the talk, little girl—I know for a fact you’ve infected five of our lads when you spread for them.”

The girl was brave—he’d give her that much credit; she drew back her fist, but before she could follow through with the punch, Penny lunged forward, wrapping a strong hand around her throat and squeezing.

“If you want to dance, then we will sweetheart, but before we start you’d best make sure you understand two things—I’ve fought bigger and meaner than you and the bloody floor was wiped up with him in the end, and secondly, I’m actually trying to help your boney arse out of a dangerous situation. Miss Evie already dislikes you something fierce—you continue to toe the path you seem so determined to tread and she’ll bloody well _end_   you girl. There’s two unspoken rules amongst us all that intertwine into one great bloody golden one—Mister and Miss Frye are _off limits._  You’d do well to commit that to memory before believing tall tales about _anyone_   visiting their bed.”

The girl went visibly pale—her gaze flicking to him for a moment before returning to Penny; the undisguised fear in her eyes was understandable—they’d all seen Evie in a fight. His twin was cold and detached, which made her absolutely lethal—she could snap an opponent’s spine or neck as easily as swatting a fly, not feeling one single ounce of remorse for her actions.

“I haven’t done anything to Miss Frye! I been polite and respectful—how can she _dislike me?_ ” she asked, voice trembling.

Penny smirked, arching a brow. “You go home and think about the way you been acting and I’m sure you’ll figure it out, girl. And if you don’t... well, you can’t say I didn’t warn you when she bloody well challenges you. Either way... it’ll be your funeral, not mine.”

She released the girl, shoving her backwards—the tension not easing out of her body until the girl turned tail and pushed her way through the crowd, heading for the door. Letting out a snort, she shook her head. “That one’s trouble—you mark my words. Only reason she signed on was cause she liked the look of your bloody chest in the ring.”

“Shut it,” he growled, shooting her a dark look.

She laughed, but the damage to her throat made her amusement sound forced and painful—almost abrasive; clapping him on the back she nodded to the bar, flashing a lopsided smile. “Did my watchdogging earn me a drink, boss?”

He nodded, the tension in his shoulders slowly draining away, allowing his coiled muscles to unclench. Penny was safe, there was no hidden nuance or meaning behind her touch—it was one of fellowship and nothing more. He could handle displays of friendly comradery, or the brutal aggressive punches and jabs of a good fight; those didn’t bother him in the slightest—it was only the _other_  kind that set him on edge, filling him with unease. Once upon a time, his sister had been the same way—hell, at times even a hug from Father or George could set them off, triggering their temper if they happened to be caught unaware.

Sighing, he scrubbed his face with his palms, not at all liking all the changes that had come about of late; despite their patching up their differences and making a fresh start, Evie was still acting withdrawn, keeping _him_ at arm’s length—that was something she never would have even considered doing back in Crawley. Even if he removed his degenerative longings from the equation, her pulling back from the closeness they’d always shared played at his mind, bothering him immensely; it  _hurt_   to have her distance herself in such a manner—an actual physical aching right in the center of his chest.

Moving up to prop himself back against the bar, he glanced over at Penny, trying to look stern. “You’re going to give Evie a reputation for being a bloody tyrant if you keep lying about her reaction like that—”

“Wasn’t a lie in the slightest—I’ve seen her watching young Tilly with a murderous look in her eyes.” Penny drawled, raising her glass.

“You have not—”

She snorted. “I most certainly have—every time that girl bats her bloody cow eyes in your direction Miss Evie goes completely still, and you and I both know what that means.”

He frowned. “I’m her bloody twin—if anyone would know I would, Penny. You’re rambling off about nothing at all.”

“Your being her brother might make you a bit blind to some things—what with being around her all the time. When your sister goes completely still and is staring at a body, she’s working out the fastest way to kill them in her head. She’s a predator through and through—same as any you might see down at the zoo, only difference being that there’s bars to protect you when you wander past the cages.”

“Bollocks,” he growled. “Evie would never kill without a reason—”

“She’s got a bloody reason—that’d be another o’ the things you’re too blind to notice, Mister Frye,” she shot back cheekily, gesturing for the barman to give him a drink.

A hand on his arm pulled his attention from Penny—turning his head, he arched a brow at Sarah, its owner. “Yes?”

“He’s at it again... ignoring me as if I ain’t even here,” Sarah grumbled. “Would you mind terribly?”

He snorted, his eyes flicking over the crowd—sure enough, her fiancée was in deep discussion with his mates, completely unaware she’d even left the table. “You’ll owe me another posy—“

“I’ll have it ready first thing,” her cheeks flushed. “Hope your lady friend has had no complaints about the quality of the blooms—”

“If she has, I haven’t heard a single one. I personally think you are very skilled at your craft.” 

 When push came to shove, he could manage to toss out a feigned bit of flattery or flirtation—either for a good cause or as required to get a job done. Evie wasn’t the only one who could detach, though in truth she was far better at it than he’d ever be. Sliding his arm around the woman’s ample waist, he raised his voice loud enough to carry across the bar, turning to face the crowd. “Rooks! A toast to the prettiest lass in the bar tonight—Miss Sarah Collins!”

Every Rook in the bar raised their glass letting out an appreciative round of shouts and cheers—all but the man who suddenly realized the object of his affection was missing from his side and was cuddled up next to his boss, pink cheeked with pleasure. “Oy! I done told you before that there’s my future wife!”

He smirked, amused at the huff—it wasn’t the first time they’d played this game, and undoubtedly it wouldn’t be the last. Robert would improve for a week or two, fawning all over his beloved and showering her with attention, only to slowly slip back into old habits again. “Then act like it, unless you want to lose your treasure—I wager any man here would be glad to make sweet Sarah his own... what say you, Rooks?”

The round of catcalls and whoops made her blush afresh—she even let out a soft giggle when her Robert hurried over to tug her away, pulling her into his arms to give her a kiss. Rolling his eyes at the idiocy of the entire incident, he turned back to his conversation with Penny—at least he’d gotten Evie some flowers in exchange for his theatrics.

“That was mighty nice of you boss, all things considering,” the woman mumbled, passing him the whiskey she had waiting.

He arched a brow, accepting the drink. “Meaning?”

“I’m observant—believe we already touched on that,” she said cryptically.

“That remains to be seen. I still say you’re way off the mark about Evie—”

“You said it yourself to young Tilly—don’t like being touched. My oldest was the same way—couldn’t even stand to have me or her sisters braid her hair.”

He eyed her for a moment, reassessing his estimation of her observational skills. “Did she ever grow out of it, or overcome the—”

“Considering she joined a bloody convent and calls herself a bride of Christ, I’d say no,” Penny said dryly. “Ain’t nothing wrong with it, you know, I’m the same way. I didn’t wed that insane bastard by choice—my Uncle matched me off so there would be one less mouth to feed. Some o’ us just don’t care to be bothered at all... though I suspect you’re a bit different than me and my Melody, in that regard, given the things I’ve seen.”

He snorted—if she only knew how true that statement was, she’d back away in horror.

Penny eyed him for a moment, wise enough to realize he had no intention of responding. “Got two prospects for your list—good lads. Used to be patrolmen but when they wouldn’t be squeezed into looking the other way, the Blighters got the big man to pull a few strings higher up—cost them their jobs.”

“You think they’d be interested?” His voice was full of doubt—being a member of the Brotherhood would mean breaking some of the very laws they’d once sworn to uphold.

“One of em offered to dispose of my husband while on the force after he gave me an especially bad beating that killed the babe I had growing inside me—Lawrence cared more about doing what was right than what was legal,” she offered. “The other is impressed by all the good you’ve done in the city—they’re both trustworthy, boss. I could set up a meeting...”

“Maybe... I’ll have to discuss it with Evie first,” he mumbled, staring down into his drink with a frown; automatically his thoughts drifted back to his sister. He should have heard something back from the train by now—how long could it bloody well take to check a single carriage?

“I had another thought... though I suspect Miss Evie wouldn’t like it much,” Penny offered—sliding her empty down the bar and gesturing for another.

“Mhmm? What would that be?” He asked absentmindedly—the ache in the pit of his stomach was still there. He shouldn’t have ignored it. He should have followed his gut instinct and—

“I’ll be glad to relay it when you can pay it proper attention—it’s a rather good one, if I say so myself. I don’t want to waste it when your mind is drifting.”

“Hmmm?” He glanced up from his drink, brow wrinkling. “Sorry—I just realized the messenger I sent on an errand hasn’t reappeared.”

“He has—reported to me since you were otherwise encumbered.” Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment at the oversight. “Slipped my mind when I realized you needed a bit of assistance—I’m sorry Mister Frye... it won’t happen again.”

His jaw clenched, but he didn’t lash out at her—she was one of the few he could trust almost implicitly, but more importantly she was almost a friend. Both things earned her a bit more leeway than he’d grant anyone else. “Is she on the train?”

“She is... wouldn’t open the door, or respond, but Jimmy scaled the roof and dropped down to peer in the window—said she’s in there safe and sound, all curled up.”

A growl escaped him before he could catch it; raising his glass, he chugged it down, reaching over to snag Penny’s—draining it as well. “Well that’s just bloody wonderful—at least one of us can fucking sleep,” he muttered darkly.

Casting a woeful look at her now empty glass, she signaled for two more. “Mind if I speak freely for a moment, Mister Frye?”

“I imagine nothing could stop you, short of physical violence.” The words were laced with thinly veiled sarcasm, reflecting the bitterness he was feeling. Had they drifted so far apart that even the bond of their twinship was fraying? Throughout their lives, the preternatural sixth sense they’d shared had never steered either wrong—if there was something wrong with one, the other felt it, plain and simple. It shouldn’t bloody well be going off willynilly when she was curled up asleep on the damned train—not unless all their fighting and bickering had thrown them both so far off course that they’d destroyed the very thing they’d always cherished above all else.

“Seems to me you’re needing a bit o’ sound advice... the kind a young man might get from his mother. Seeing as how I’m beyond old enough to qualify... that leaves it to me.” She snagged the drinks as they came whizzing down the highly polished surface of the bar, shoving one in his hand.

“You have no idea how old my mother would be,” he said glumly.

“You might be surprised... and besides, I’m near three times your age—I’ll be greeting my fiftieth year next month. I dare say that’s close enough.”

He tried—and failed—to hide his surprise, finding it hard to believe a woman of such advanced age could be so quick and nimble in a fight. He’d chalked her rather haggard appearance up to a hard life—yet another thing he’d assessed wrong.

“Iffin you were to compare someone like me or that mite of a girl Tilly to a fine noble lady like the Queen... most would say that Tilly and me drew the short straw in life—if you get my meaning. My life has been hard and painful, that’s true enough—but still, I’ve got something the Queen will never have, no matter how much she might desire it.”

“Oh? And what might that be?” Given the dismal quality of his thoughts, he couldn’t help but latch on to what seemed to have the makings of a rather amusing distraction, the corners of his lips twitching up in a faint smile.

“Anonymity. Ain’t nobody in the whole blasted world that cares what I might get up to—can’t say the same for the Queen, now can you?”

The twitch became a full out ironic smirk—he wondered if she realized how ridiculous it was to lecture an Assassin about the importance of such a thing. “Too right—”

“Glad to see you agree,” she cut him off, narrowing her eyes, “but it does make me wonder why exactly it is that you’ve been so intent on making sure every bloody person in this city knows who the Frye twins are.”

He blinked, his smile fading—not sure if the drink was addling his head or if her statement was as nonsensical as it seemed. “What does that have to do with—”

“An   _anonymous_  man could marry the   _anonymous_  country lass who owned his heart,” she said bluntly, her eyes boring into his.

“There’s a bit more to it than that, Penny... it’s not simply a matter of keeping my Crawley sweetheart safe and far removed from this kind of life and all the dangers that come with it,” he grumbled, raising his glass to his lips.

“I’m not as daft as you seem to think,” she countered. “And as I’ve already pointed out, I’m far more observant than this lot around us—had to be, considering me husband was mad as a hatter. Had to watch for the slightest change in his moods to protect the children and myself. I  _know_ who it is you pine for, Mister Frye.”

He choked on his whiskey, spraying the crowd around the bar—earning more than a few grumbled curses in the process. Clearing his throat once, then again, he shot her a murderous look. “You have  _no_ idea what you’re talking about—”

 “Seen it with me own eyes, ain’t I? You watching her with a wistful smile... turning all pink cheeked like a schoolboy and looking away when she turns her head. Funny thing is...” she took a long sip of her drink, then wiped her mouth on the sleeve of her green jacket, “you don’t seem to realize that Miss Frye... she’s doing that exact same thing to y _ou_.”

“Now I know you’re drunk—or else maybe a punch rattled your brain in the brawl,” he huffed, looking away—fearing that she might see something in his eyes that betrayed him. Despite how ridiculous her words were, they kindled something deep inside him—a surge of  _hope_ that raced through his body faster than any shot of whiskey ever could.

“I ain’t addle brained...and that ain’t all I’ve noticed...” she flashed a smile, revealing a gaping hole where she’d lost a tooth in the fight. “You’re the one leaving her them flowers, not that priggish shopkeeper. Miss Sarah done told me you pay her double what they cost to make sure they’re perfect in every way.”

“Penny...” it came out a warning growl. Her words poked the anger that always lingered within—he could feel it stirring to life at the mention of the man who was constantly competing with him for his twin’s attention. “Doesn’t matter one whit what you observed or heard. She truly believes  the flowers were from—”

“Mister Green—”

“Yes _fucking_ Greenie,” he snarled, wanting nothing more than to tear the man apart.

“No—Mister Green is _here_ ,” she hissed, gesturing towards the door at his back.

_Oh bloody hell, could this night get any worse?_

He shifted, turning his head—watching as the man threaded his way through the raucous crowd of Rooks; the look of dismissive _distaste_ on Greenie’s face ignited his anger even more, the sudden surge of temper tensing his muscles, putting him even more on edge.

“Jacob... I thought I’d find you here.”

Green’s tone was positively bland, but there was a definite undercurrent of disapproval that made him want to smash his glass into the other man’s face. “Did you now?”

“I need a private word with you... if you could manage to tear yourself away from your   _festivities_  for a few moments?”

Downing the remains of his glass, he slammed it down on the bar, jerking his head toward the side door—sauntering towards it without waiting for Green to move. The cool, misty air of the alley felt heavenly against his hot skin—leaning against the wall, he closed his eyes for a moment, struggling to hold on to some faint semblance of cordiality.

_A monumental task, to say the least._

“Are you well?”

The feigned concern in the other man’s voice might have fooled Evie, but he wasn’t nearly as gullible as his sweet sister when it came to Henry Green. “You instigated a bloody meeting to inquire about my health?”

“Well... no—of course not. I simply—”

“Whatever it is, just spit it out Greenie—I don’t have all night,” he growled, his patience already wearing dangerously thin.

“I’ve just come from speaking with your sister about a rather delicate matter. You must forgive my impropriety—I realize now that I should have sought you out first.” Green seemed almost _nervous_ —that was something that was rarely seen in a member of the Brotherhood.

“Let me guess... you found some cryptic riddle alluding to another bloody artifact buried in an ancient tomb, and now Evie is determined we should track it down and retrieve it post haste.” His voice was thick with sarcastic irritation—the last thing he wanted right now was to be bogged down with the intricate planning sessions Evie was sure to insist on before taking action.

“Actually, no—it was a _personal_ matter. I asked her to be my wife.”

Those six words completely decimated the customary carefree countenance he always displayed to the world; he stared at Green, telling himself he  m _ust_ have misheard. Though he’d realized the man had eyes for his twin, never even  _once_  had he considered there might be a proposal—what would be the point when Evie would say no? They’d made a pact—a _sacred_   vow between them. Evie wouldn’t go back on her word—she wouldn’t abandon him, leaving him all alone. Not for bloody Henry Green—not for _anyone._ Their lives were  _meant_  to be spent side by side and that’s all there was to it—they would take care of each other until the end without _anyone_ intruding.

It took him a moment to realize that Green’s lips were still moving—but for some strange reason, he couldn’t hear the words. His head was filled with a roaring that was all encompassing, drowning out everything else.

“Jacob? Are you listening to me?” Green’s voice was sharp—sharp enough to snap him out of his momentary stupor. Only _one_   person could get away with talking to him in that manner, and it sure as hell wasn’t the man standing in front of him.

“What was her response?” His voice was a murmur, but seething with barely withheld rage—it was taking every ounce of control he had not to give in to the urge to set it free.

Green tilted his head—drawing the moment out for so long that he almost snapped. “She is...   _considering_   it—however the delay is simply due to the shortness of our acquaintance. Once an adequate amount of time has passed it will be a yes.”

“I thought you planned to return to India—”

“I do—naturally Evie will accompany me.” Green interrupted smoothly. “My mother will teach her all that is required to be a good wife—your sister is very talented, but there are some habits she has that must be broken.”

His hands fisted—eyes squeezing closed. He didn’t like the sound of _that_ one bloody bit. “My sister is perfect exactly as she is—”

“Your thoughts on the state of her attitude and outspokenness hold no weight with me—you are hardly one to properly judge such things, Jacob. Regardless, you must admit that it is the best thing for her. She deserves a life of her own... one without the constant aggravation your _antics_  cause her—”

“The only thing I _must_ admit is _this_ ,” he growled, his eyes slowly opening as he pushed away from the wall, “If you try to take my sister from me, I’ll fucking _kill_   you.”

Green’s lips curved up in the barest semblance of a smile. “You might _try_... but you’d do well to remember we were _both_  trained in the same manner—”

“Perhaps, but I think you forget that I’ve got something on my side that neither you or my sweet sister do. For all her technical perfection and your supposed skill... I was _born_   a killer.”

Green took a step back—the movement seemed almost inadvertent, as though his body sensed that danger was near, even as he shook his head, denying what he’d heard. “You do not mean that... none of the Brotherhood takes pleasure in killing. It is simply what must be done for the greater good of all.”

Even the burst of laughter that escaped him sounded like an angry growl. “If you truly believe that then you don’t know me nearly as well as you think, Greenie. I _thrive_   on the violence you abhor so much—it is as necessary to me as air.” His lips twisted up in a feral smile that was more a baring of teeth than anything else. “And in case you haven’t noticed, my sister is the same way—Evie needs it just as much as I do.”

“That is preposterous! She is a seeker, the same as me. She will gladly settle down to a life of studious pursuits once we are in Amritsar—”

“You’re not hearing me—or else you’re too bloody arrogant to comprehend my meaning. Evie’s not going _anywhere_ with you—we made promises to our father and vows to each other that supersede everything else!”

“You think only of yourself and not of what is best for her—how very typical,” Green said, his voice full of scorn.

He shifted, not dropping his gaze for even a moment—taking off his hat and collapsing it, dropping it on one of the wooden packing crates stacked beside the door. One by one,  he began removing his weapons, dropping them into a neat pile.

“What are you—”

“From the day we set foot in this fucking city you’ve done nothing but look down your bloody nose at me—you think I’m so stupid that I can’t see the game you’ve been playing all along?” He shrugged off his coat, adding it to the pile—then unstrapped his gauntlet and dropped it atop the lot. “You think you’re a better man than me, Greenie? Well now’s your chance to bloody well prove it!”

“Fighting you would cause your sister distress—that is something that  _I_   try to avoid,” Green said, smirking.

He narrowed his eyes, a fearsome scowl twisting his features. It wasn’t what Green said—he’d been dealing with the man’s priggish, holier than thou attitude from day one—rather, it was the smug, self-satisfied expression on his face that increased his anger tenfold. “You sanctimonious little bastard! As if you haven’t been whispering poison about me in her ear for bloody weeks! You’ve been trying to set us at odds all along—Evie may be blind to your devious tricks, but I’m not!” He snarled, advancing toward him. “I’m my father’s bloody son—he taught me how to see past the surreptitiousness to the treachery beneath!”

For a moment, time stood still as Green’s right hand shifted, hovering over his left forearm—a clear indication that he _knew_ he couldn’t win the fight fairly and was contemplating engaging his blade.

“You do it and I swear to Christ I’ll feed it to you,” he growled—wishing that Green would indeed follow through with the action.

_No one can argue against killing a man in self-defense—especially when I’m unarmed._

Green’s hand dropped to his side as he backed away like a cornered animal; a moment later, both hands raised—not to fight, but rather, assuming a posture of supplication, like a marble saint on a pedestal. “If you follow through with this, she will never forgive you, Jacob.”

The words chased back the heat of his temper just enough for his brain to kick in—he faltered, recognizing the truth in Green’s words. He couldn’t risk losing her—not again. What satisfaction would there be in beating Green to a bloody pulp if his rash actions pushed his relationship with Evie past the point of breaking?

The fight might have ended without a single blow—but Green couldn’t leave well enough alone.

“A brother should want what is best for his sister... but then... you’re not a _normal_   brother by any means, are you, Jacob?”

The implication in that statement was too much to ignore; faster than the blink of an eye the rage stirred to life again, sending out tendrils of heat to burn a fiery path through his body. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“I’ve seen the way you look at her when you think no one is looking... your expression betraying the depraved iniquity of your thoughts,” Green spat out. “Do you think if you best me in a fight your sister will fall into your arms, inviting you into her bed?”

White spots of rage stole his vision—the roaring was back in his head, stronger and louder than before. Every inch of him prickled with tension—even the hairs on his arms bristled in response to the statement. “Maybe not, but I promise you that I’ll make damned sure to keep _you_ out of it—”

Green let out a derisive snort. “I think not. I think that when I tell her of your vile perversion she will be so _disgusted_   by you that she will do just that. She will give herself to me fully to free herself of your corruptive presence once and for all—”

He attacked without thought, lunging across the space between them—his fist slamming into Green’s face before he could finish the statement.

Blood lust thundered through him like a force of nature itself, demanding not just victory, but total annihilation. He fought like never before, all raw emotion and fury—his muscles coiling beneath his skin as his fists slammed into Green’s face and body repeatedly. Henry Green was technically skilled, successfully deflecting the first punches—eventually landing a few blows of his own, but it wasn’t enough to save him. Not when his opponent had white hot rage turning his blood to ash in his veins. Not when his opponent was fighting to save the only thing he had—the only thing that _mattered_ —in the whole fucking world.

Green should have considered his handicap before provoking a fight. Should have considered that he himself fought with the exact same technique as Ethan Frye—the man who’d trained his flesh and blood for over a decade, using the exact same moves. He should have considered that Ethan had programmed his son to be the perfect partner to his darling daughter, her opposite in every way—he was the fire to Evie’s ice, embracing and gaining strength from the very emotions that his sister shut out. Emotions that—in this instance—awoke the basest of animal instincts deep within his brain, filling him with an overpowering need to protect his _mate_   at all cost, fueling him in a way that nothing else ever could.

Henry Green was soft—a pampered housecat facing a raging lion that had unsheathed its lethal claws.

His foot lashed out, connecting with the side of Green’s knee—the wet painful sound of the joint breaking echoed like a gunshot down the alley; cursing, Green sank to the ground—he followed, like a rabid hound, unwilling to relinquish his prey. He felt no pain from Green’s blows, nor from the shattered glass that lined the cobbled floor of the alley as it tore into his knees—the heat of his wrath incinerated everything else, honing his mind to the razor sharp focus his father had tried so hard to instill. Slamming his fist into the bulk of the body beneath him, he pictured the force of his blows destroying the soft tissue beneath, pulverizing Green’s innards into a bloody froth.

And in that moment, when his focus was at its peak, his father’s voice flashed through his head, sounding tired and reed thin—exactly the way it had when he’d overheard the comment from the hallway a week before death had claimed him.

_“I’ve made her almost too detached George. Technique will only get you so far in a fight—you have to have the passion to drive you further...”_ _the voice had trailed off into a round of painful hacking coughs._ _“Jacob has that passion—I can only hope and pray that he will teach Evie to unlock the very doors within her that my foolish mistake sealed.”_

There’d been _pride_ in his father’s voice when he’d said it. _Pride_  in the son that he’d chastised far more than complimented. Pride coupled with an unfaltering  _faith_ that his son would keep his daughter safe no matter what the cost—faith that his son would protect his sole legacy to the world, the impeccable, phenomenal partnership he’d created between his children.

_I won’t fail you, Father—I swear it._

The momentary distraction the memory caused almost cost him dearly; he almost discounted the importance of Green shifting beneath him—almost missed the hissing snick of the man’s blade engaging.  Launching himself up and back, he snarled in fury as the tip of the blade sliced through his shirt and into the skin beneath.

_Fucking cheating bastard!_

Another sound echoed through the alley—far louder than the muted sound of Green’s blade sliding free. It was the noise of a pistol’s hammer cocking—immediately freezing both men in place.

“Always knew there was something slimy about you, Mister Green—that smile o’ yours makes my skin crawl.” The raspy voice came from the shadowy recess near where the alley joined the street; Penny stepped into the pool of light afforded by the lamp over the door, her pistol aimed at Green’s head. “Doesn’t surprise me one bit to find that you’re not man enough to fight fair.”

Green started up at her with undisguised hatred in his eyes. “You know _nothing_ about me, old woman.”

“I know more than you think... more than Mister Frye does. The two of you aren’t the only ones in this here alley that have had the pleasure of George Westhouse and Ethan Frye’s acquaintance—though I believe I had an honor that escaped you both, seeing as I knew his misses as well.”

Her words were like ice water, shocking him senseless—so much so that they chased back the roaring crackle of the anger that consumed him. “You... you knew my mother? _How_?”

“Never asked much about my past, laddie—didn’t inquire about my name or where my people might be from.” Penny’s lips curved up in a sly, knowing smile. “Georgie is my cousin—we grew up in the same bloody house.”

His eyes flicked from the woman to the man stretched out on the alley floor; though a million questions raced through his mind, he couldn’t allow them to distract him—not when Green had already proven he had no honor in a fight. Strangely enough, Green’s swarthy completion had gone pale at Penny’s announcement—he looked bloody well _afraid_ , more afraid than he’d been at the prospect of the fight itself. “So I should assume you know all kind of juicy little secrets?”

“Aye—you see, when Ethan’s little operative here turned his back on him, refusing to talk to even George... you might say I was asked to ghost their Ghost. He knew too much about Ethan’s family to be left unmonitored—Georgie tends to be a wee bit overprotective, and he was wary of trusting  _anyone_  when it came to Cecily’s babes.” Penny moved to his side, eyeing the man at their feet. “Best thing to do would be shoot him—if you don’t take care of rats when they appear, they spread disease.”

He thought about the way Green had pretended to mourn the loss of his father, using Evie’s grief as a means of getting closer to her—yet Penny’s words clearly implied the man had betrayed their father, or in the very least been at odds with him. “No... I have a feeling there is someone else who will relish having his blood on her hands.”

“Too right. I told you she was a predator through and through—the female of any species is more dangerous than the male, everyone knows that.”

“I could very well die right here from my injuries if the two of you keep bantering all night,” Green growled.

“None of that, Mister Green—you just sit there and stew in your bloody juices while Mister Frye decides what to do with you.” She lowered her voice, leaning closer. “Whole reason I come out here was to clear up a miscommunication—Jimmy just showed up and I asked him if Miss Evie was still asleep when he set out. Apparently, she wasn’t curled up asleep at all—he meant she was curled up on the floor of the carriage. Said it looked like she’d been crying her eyes out.”

Instantly, a surge of emotions welled up inside him, each one battling the others for precedence. Disbelief, of course—Evie rarely cried, their father had instilled her with the ability to dismiss emotion as easily and with as little effort as it took her to blink. Anguish was there too—the fact she was upset caused his own heart to ache, filling him with the overwhelming urge to rush to her side to comfort and console her. And underneath everything else, a wave of relief that their bond wasn’t damaged; he’d felt the pangs in response to the strength of her emotions.

_But why is she so upset?_

Misery filled him—there could only be one answer to the question. Evie _wanted_   to marry the bloody bastard, but felt trapped by their vow.

“If I might make another suggestion?” Penny’s voice was a gravelly whisper right beside his ear. “Now might be a good time to take a bit of rest and relaxation in the country—it would give you a chance to properly prepare her and explain things before  _he_  spins his version, taking the choice from your hands.”

“I can’t leave the Rooks unattended—”

“You can trust me to keep things in line, lad—George does. That might not mean much to some... but I know it will to you,” she murmured. “Loves you as if you were his own, don’t he? That makes you my kin by default—I’ll do whatever it takes to protect your interests here in the city.”

“What about him?” He glanced over at Green, scowling.

“I’m thinking that I’ll have the lads truss him up and leave him somewhere pretty... he’ll get free soon enough, but not before you and Miss Evie are out of the city. The two of you can decide what to do about him when you return.”

“He’s proven he’ll stoop to the lowest of levels... it might not be safe for you,” he muttered.

“He knows who I am now—if he touches a hair on my head, he’ll meet the same fate as my late husband.”

He blinked. “George killed him?”

“He wanted to—but it wasn’t him that actually did the deed.” Her lips twitched. “Twas your mother that gutted the bastard when she found out he beat my son to death—George just disposed of the body.”

Despite his aching heart, he smiled at the comment; he’d often wondered if Evie took after their mother in more than her appearance—now he knew. “She sounds like she was a dangerous woman when angered.”

“I’ll tell you all I know when you return from your little trip. Best be going now, Mister Frye—it will be easier for the lads to handle him before he regains his strength.”

“Agreed.” He turned, moving to reclaim his coat—stowing away his weapons and strapping his gauntlet back where it belonged. As he donned his hat, he shot her a crooked smile—slowly rebuilding the Jacob Frye that he presented to the world. “Penny.... one last thing?”

“Yes boss?”

“My name is Jacob... I expect you to call me by it. No more Mister Frye—and no more boss.”

With that, he disappeared into the shadows, sprinting for the tracks—rushing to the one place where he truly belonged. The one place that was his and his alone—the place that he wouldn’t give up without a fight to the very death.

_Evie’s side._

**Author's Note:**

> This story will tie in with 'Song of the Night Bird' (ongoing fic), 'The Cogitations of George Westhouse' (drabble collection) as well as 'The Private Journal of Evie Frye' (drabble collection). 
> 
> Originally posted on booksandblades.tumbler on May 15, 2017.


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